many different types of bread
by wallywesting
Summary: in which Sam divides the shopping list at a minimart and Castiel turns it into a midlife crisis. post-season 8.


many different types of bread

The lighting in the minimart is cheap and too bright, beams of fluorescent lights held too far from the ceiling and too close to the ground, throwing everything into sharp relief. Castiel blinks rapidly to acquaint himself with the distribution of the shadows. Even after his pupils dilate accordingly, he still needs to narrow his eyes.

"Okay, let's get started," Sam says. He claps his hands together once and pulls out a list from the pocket of his jacket. "Why don't you go pick up the bread? And I'll get... everything else?"

Castiel looks up at Sam. The poor lighting doesn't seem to bother him.

"I can get the bread," he says with a firm nod.

Sam smiles and consults his list. It is significantly larger than Dean's lists, usually consisting mostly of beer, jerky, and magazines found beside the register. On the way to the minimart, Sam told him about the importance of a full meal, eaten at least twice daily. It seemed a little much, but Castiel had learned to listen to Sam when it came to nutrition. When he still had his grace, he saw into Dean's heart and into Sam's heart and Sam's was notably healthier. Now that he actually has to worry about his vessel's—his own heart, he surmises that doing what Sam tells him to do would be better.

"The bread should be that way," Sam tells him, pointing to the end of the store, by the far wall.

Sam walks away, grabbing a basket from the counter as he goes and exchanging a polite smile with the cashier, a bored looking young woman who is flipping through a magazine. She pops her gum as she turns a page. Pop. Turn. Pop. Turn. Castiel isn't aware that he is watching her until she looks up at him and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. He quickly averts his gaze and turns himself in the direction of where Sam said the bread was, then starts off.

He grabs the first thing he sees, then sees another, very different package just beside it, and beside that one, another package. He looks down at the one in his hands. Hamburger buns, it reads in boastful, bright red print. He remembers Dean making hamburgers at what the Winchesters fondly call the Batcave. He thinks this is the right thing to take to Sam. But beside the hamburger buns are long loaves of brown bread, and he remembers Sam saying something about brown bread being healthy in the car. He puts the hamburger buns back and takes the loaf of brown bread. The brown bread is speckled, strange looking. Multigrain, the labeling reads. Castiel sighs and places it back on the shelf. Hotdog buns, flatbread, sliced bread, bagels, so many choices. All Sam had said was bread. He could have been more specific.

Castiel places his hands on the shelf and leans slightly forward, shifting some of his weight off of his feet. He remembers a time when he used to watch the Winchesters move, run a hand through their hair or wipe their face with their hands or scratch at their arms or favor one leg more than the other and he never understood it. Now, his palms slowly going numb from the pressure he's applying on them, he understands.

He straightens up and analyzes the bread again. Whole grain, rye, white, pumpernickel. Perhaps he should have a taste of each one to determine which to take to Sam. Not that he is too good with taste. The human tongue is so complex. Anything he eats seems to bombard his senses. Dean tossed him an apple the other day. It was dark red, the color of blood. Castiel bit into it and sweetness rushed up to meet him. He ate the entire thing, except for the core, then went to the kitchen to get another one but only found a green one. He bit into that and sourness seemed to envelope him from all sides. He spent hours contemplating the difference. He doesn't have hours now. He has until Sam finishes his list and comes looking for him.

The lights are making shadows. Castiel rubs his eyes but it doesn't help. Over the top off the shelf, he sees Sam hovering over the freezers on the other side of the store. His basket is already full. Castiel turns quickly back to the bread and takes the stack of bagels. The bag crackles in his hands, catches and refracts the fluorescent light above him. Bagels have grain, grain is a necessary component of a human's daily intake. That is that.

But he has never seen the Winchesters eat bagels before. Suddenly, he feels very frustrated. He holds the bag of bagels tightly. The lighting is too poor, the shadows somehow too bright, the crinkling of the bag too loud, the girl popping the gum and flipping the magazine, his own stomach growling ever so slightly, his arm complaining from the angle he was holding the bag at, and he might need to go to the bathroom soon. It is all so absurd. How is it that he can feel all of this, hear everything around him through his dim, human ears and still have room for frustration?

He misses his wings. He misses flying. He misses the cold air of the outer layer of the earth and the stars and the simplicity of his own mind, not this vessel's mind. Not Jimmy Novak's tired, sad old body. He misses his mother tongue and the sight of his brothers and sisters. He doesn't belong here, he doesn't want to be here anymore. Not in this damn minimart with half of an idea of what he's doing and at the same time somehow, no idea at all.

"Castiel?"

Sam is beside him. Probably has been for a while. Castiel wonders how much he's seen.

They look at each other for a moment. Above, the lights buzz. The sound annoys him. This never would have bothered him if he still had his grace. But he doesn't. Maybe he will never get it back. Maybe it is lost to him forever. Maybe all he can do is get the bread, eat the bread, and then buy some more bread and eat that. That is what Sam and Dean do. That is what he will do, too.

He places the bag of bagels in Sam's basket. His palms are sweating. He wipes them on the jeans Dean gave him. It doesn't help.

"Great," Sam says with too much enthusiasm. Castiel knows he is trying to make him feel better but what Castiel really wants is not to feel at all. "And we should take this too," Sam adds, and he takes the sliced white bread off the shelf, places it over the bagels in the basket, and smiles.

Castiel shifts his weight to one leg.

Sam tucks a lock of dark hair behind his ear.

The girl in the front is still popping her gum.

"Okay, let's go," Sam says.

Castiel follows him to the front, sees a glossy cover of _Busty Asian Beauties_, and places it in the basket on top of the bread. Sam laughs, a memory swimming to the forefront of his mind. Castiel may have been able to see it with his grace but now it is gone and the memory is a mystery. Perhaps it is better that way. Perhaps he does not need to see everything, know everything. Perhaps just the laugh, and not the reason behind it, is enough.

Sam pays for the groceries. The girl punches numbers onto the register. Lights buzz overhead and shadows encroach in the corners of the shop. His heart is beating, completely his now and not his vessel's. Red, hot blood rushes through his veins. His lungs take in oxygen and release carbon dioxide. Sam sniffs, then sneezes.

"Bless you," the girl says.

"Thank you," Sam replies.

They share a smile. The girl's cheeks gain the smallest touch of color. Castiel thinks, _I know what kind of bread to get now_.

He thinks, _It will be alright._

**.**


End file.
